Messed Up
by The Bitch Who Died
Summary: {Dedicated to An Adoring Fan aka celeste3673} "But half the damn world is messed up." /or/ He reminds himself that it's messed up for him to have these feelings but, really, the blood stains should do that themselves. prequel to Another Bad Idea (you voted on it, here it is) [thundercest] [ambiguous max/phoebe] \One-shot/ R
1. Chapter 1

So, you guys voted. And this is what won. It's kind of terrible. Sorry.

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A burning at his wrists enflames as he itches at his flesh. His nails desperately tug at his forearm, trying to scrub away the coat of _filth_ no one else sees. Dig, dig, dig. Under, around but never removing the target.

He can't find the feelings he wants gone, they've been buried under the worn flesh & its many, _many_ scars.

No one notices him tearing away at the flesh with his nails, no one can see the drops of blood adding another coat to his nails or the opening flesh. He's much too smart to put it on display. But not smart enough to _find_ those very _messed_ _up_ feelings.

His nails dig away under his desk, his eyelids drooping at the monotone lecture. Math is his least favorite subject. It's her favorite though, he knows that for a fact.

_Her._

A smile tugs at his lips.

No.

Wrong.

_Messed up._

His nails claw away faster under the desk.

No one notices.

His eyes squeeze shut, his lips tightly pressed together. _This_ is not his favorite form of coping. He hates when he has to tear away at the flesh with his nails. A blade is much more preferable. But _this_ has to do now; he can't exactly take out a razor or pocket knife in the middle of class & sink the blade into his flesh.

"Mr. Thunderman, would you _care_ to pay attention?" His math teacher snaps with narrowed eyes.

Max peels his eyes open slowly. _She _laughs at him as light enters his vision. "Not really." His teacher forgot that he bites. In the embarrassed silence, all eyes locked on him, he pushes his fist down, his nails dragging along his flesh. _She_ looks at him with doe eyes & wraps her fingers around his arm, begging him not to. But he reminds himself how messed up _these_ feelings are.

Dig the find the problem.

He gets detention for "talking back."

He bitterly excuses himself for having an opinion on the utter crap they're taught. Then, his nails resume tearing away at his flesh. This is his remedy.

Not _her._

_She_ can't be his remedy. The days spent dwelling on the simplest details of her smile or the way she laughs or the way her eyes light up when she's excited can't make him smile. The searing of his raw red arm & the thin lines he leaves are supposed to remind him of that. They're supposed to find & stamp out the feelings.

He convinces himself that they do.

Tear, tear, tear.

School is almost out. One more hour before the final bell rings. Loud & shrill yet anticipated. One more hour before he can really tear away at his flesh. Detention can be talked out of. _Anything_ that can be talked into can be talked out of.

Fact.

And he's charming enough to talk his way out of prison. A kind smile, warm eyes, well picked words, & he's free. Well, not of these _damn_ chains he can't sever. He silently wonders if _her_ lips could be the key. But he passes this off as insane because it's so, so messed up to _think_ about her like that.

When he gets home, the blade comes out & so does the blood.

It feels wonderful, bliss even, to slice away at the filth. At _those_ feelings. Those horrible, horrible feelings he harbors.

Tap, tap, tap.

He panics, people don't usually interrupt his . . . _Sessions._ "Give me a minute!" The blade is hidden, the bleeding stopped. He hides the fresh cuts, swearing in hisses under his breath.

He tries to roll the gauze around the wounds.

Shit.

He bends down to get the dropped ivory.

Hurry.

He wraps it around the wounds as quickly as he can.

Breathe.

He jerks at the roll, trying to sever it.

Damn.

His teeth take the unraveled end & tug violently.

_Please._

It finally tears.

God.

He yanks a piece of tape & forces the gauze to stay.

Finally.

"Come in!" He calls.

_She _enters. "Max, um . . ."

His baby sister fidgets with her outfit.

He swears to God his filthy heart melts.

"I . . ." She looks too cute, nervous & blushing.

He can't take it. He couldn't cut away the feelings.

He kisses her.

Impulsive, hormonal, stupid all come to mind.

Messed up follows as it _always_ does.

But she kisses back.

"Wait," she breathes out, pushing him away, "Max, this . . . This is - "

"Messed up?" He guesses, "yeah, Phoebe, it is. But half the damn _world_ is messed up."

* * *

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And trade it for a review,

It'll serve as feedback & motivation for my writing tricks,

And otherwise, I might just slap you.

- Queen Alison the Obstinate


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